Until just weeks ago, at the age of 51, I believed I was completely illiterate. The pages of books appeared as incomprehensible patterns, and despite being diagnosed with dyslexia, something deeper was at work. Words wouldn't cooperate, regardless of how hard I tried to make sense of them. My relationship with language was fundamentally different from most people's experiences, yet I had no framework to understand why.
Everything changed when a friend introduced me to the concept of "Brilliant Minds" and suggested I try reading in a mirror. What happened next was nothing short of miraculous—the text suddenly became crystal clear. I could read perfectly from right to left, without stumbling or hesitation. It was as if someone had unlocked a door in my mind that had been sealed shut my entire life.
This revelation wasn't just about reading—it was about discovering who I truly am. I've lived for over five decades with mirror-touch synesthesia, a neurological condition affecting approximately 2% of the population, without knowing what it was or how profoundly it shaped my experience of the world.
What is Mirror-Touch Synesthesia?
Mirror-touch synesthesia is more than heightened empathy—it's a neurological reality where witnessing someone else's physical sensations triggers the same sensations in your own body. When I see someone stub their toe, I feel that sharp pain shoot through my own foot. When someone experiences joy, that emotion floods my system as if it were my own.
For years, people accused me of mimicking others or being overly dramatic. They didn't understand that when I winced at their pain or laughed at their joy, I was experiencing genuine physiological responses. I wasn't choosing to react this way—my brain was literally mirroring their experiences in my own nervous system.
This condition explains why crowds can be overwhelming for me, why watching certain scenes in movies can be physically painful, and why I sometimes need to retreat into solitude just to remember which feelings are actually mine. It also explains why, as a live broadcaster, I can tap into the emotions of my audience with such precision—I'm literally feeling what they feel.
The Musical Dimensions of Synesthesia
My synesthetic experiences extend beyond mirror-touch into the realm of music, which has been my lifelong passion. Mozart has resonated within me since childhood, though I didn't understand why until recently. For me, music isn't just sound—it's a multisensory experience that engages taste, color, and emotion simultaneously.
When I hear orchestral arrangements, I experience specific flavors on my tongue. A violin's high notes might taste like citrus, while a cello's deep tones could evoke the richness of dark chocolate. These taste associations aren't random or metaphorical—they're consistent, involuntary sensory experiences that have accompanied my music listening throughout my life.
Similarly, musical compositions reveal themselves to me as vibrant visual landscapes. Each note has its own color, creating dynamic patterns that dance before my mind's eye. This explains why, since my recent awakening, I've been able to compose over 1,500 songs in just months—I'm not just writing music, I'm translating the colors and tastes I experience into sound.
From Isolation to Creation
For much of my life, these experiences pushed me toward isolation. The constant influx of others' emotions and sensations was often too much to bear. I needed sanctuary from a world that overwhelmed my senses and a society that misunderstood my reactions.
As I wrote in a recent reflection:
Isolation is my sweet retreat. From the noise, I find my own rhythm. With every note, I break free from the chains. In my music, I experience peace. So here I stand, just me and the keys, in my sanctuary, where I find solace. With every song, I take a stand; in this solitude, I understand.
But isolation, while sometimes necessary for my well-being, isn't the complete story. What I once viewed as a burden—this ability to feel deeply—I now recognize as a gift. It informs my music with emotional authenticity that might otherwise be unattainable. It allows me to create songs that don't just sound beautiful but that communicate specific emotional landscapes with remarkable precision.
The Dark Side of Sensing Everything
Living with mirror-touch synesthesia isn't always beautiful or profound. It has a darker dimension that I'm only now beginning to process. For twelve years of my childhood, I endured abuse from multiple individuals. During these traumatic experiences, I didn't just feel my own fear and pain—I felt the emotions of my abusers too.
This created profound confusion in my developing mind. How could I make sense of experiencing my attacker's pleasure alongside my own suffering? It fractured my sense of self in ways I'm still working to heal. It led to years of questioning my identity and struggling to distinguish between what was done to me and who I truly am.
Even today, in less traumatic contexts, the condition can be overwhelming. I walk into my father's home and immediately sense whether he's taken his medication. I feel the presence of a baby in a pregnant woman's womb before she even knows she's expecting. I experience my dog's discomfort when they're unwell. There's no off switch—I feel it all.
The Language That Finally Makes Sense
Since discovering that I can read and write when approaching text differently, I haven't stopped creating. The 3,000 poems I'd written throughout my life but couldn't understand suddenly became legible to me. Ideas and emotions that had been trapped in my mind now flow freely onto the page.
I can now articulate exactly how each emotion affects my thoughts, what colors accompany different feelings, and what flavors specific words evoke. The synesthetic connections that once confused me now serve as a rich vocabulary for describing my inner world.
This isn't just liberating for me personally—it's transforming how I connect with others through my music instruction. I can guide students to understand musical concepts through multiple sensory channels, offering alternatives when traditional approaches don't resonate. What was once my greatest challenge has become my unique strength as a teacher.
Finding Others Who Understand
One of the most profound aspects of this late-in-life discovery has been realizing I'm not alone. There are others with brilliant minds who experience the world in similarly multisensory ways. Though our specific synesthetic associations differ, we share the fundamental experience of a more permeable boundary between sensory inputs.
For those with mirror-touch synesthesia specifically, we navigate a world where the traditional borders between self and other are neurologically blurred. We feel the world's pain acutely, but we also experience its joy with heightened intensity. We carry the emotional weight of those around us, sometimes to our detriment, but this same sensitivity allows us to create art that touches people deeply.
The Path Forward
At 51, I'm essentially relearning who I am. Every day brings new discoveries about how my mind works and how I can harness these unique neurological traits rather than being overwhelmed by them. I'm developing strategies to protect my sensory well-being without completely disconnecting from the world.
Music remains my sanctuary and my medium for expression. Through composition and performance, I transform the sometimes overwhelming sensory input of mirror-touch synesthesia into something beautiful and meaningful. The orchestra—with its complex interplay of instruments, tones, and emotions—mirrors my own internal experience of the world.
For others who might recognize themselves in my story, I encourage exploration and connection. Whether you experience synesthesia, are neurodivergent in other ways, or simply feel things more intensely than most, know that your different way of processing the world isn't wrong—it's just different. And in that difference lies potential for unique creativity and profound human connection.
I no longer think of myself as illiterate. Instead, I recognize that I've always had my own language—one of color, taste, emotion, and music. Now, finally, I'm learning to translate it for others to understand.
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